


Signifying Nothing

by voleuse



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-15
Updated: 2005-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:02:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A poor player, heard no more, continues to tell his tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Signifying Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for "Not Fade Away" and "Spin the Bottle." Title and summary adapted from Shakespeare's _Macbeth_. Headings taken from _All My Dead_ by Jane Routh.

_i. Do you think I am going to die? Yes, I say, Yes. _

Lorne washes his hands, first.

After a long moment of staring down at Lindsey's body, he drops the gun to the floor. (Not a police station in the world can yet identify demon fingerprints.) He stumbles out, down the hallway; not because of any emotional breakdown, but because there are too many bodies in his way.

He finds the nearest bathroom and washes his hands. Slowly, meticulously, until he can't even imagine that there's blood on his skin. "Out, damn spot," he mutters to himself, and wishes he could let himself smile at a bad joke.

He considers taking a bus out of town, as far as it'll go, but decides it's too impractical. He likes the dramatic gesture inherent in the idea, but the wrong person might look too closely, see the green hidden beneath the fedora.

Instead, he hails a cab, tosses enough money at the driver to forestall any questions, or any eye contact, and instructs him to get as far the hell out of town as the cash will take him.

They drive silently, for what seems like hours, and every time his breath hitches, Lorne tells himself that it'll be easier not to look back.

_ii. to exist only in someone else's memory_

Lorne had _liked_ Lindsey, back in the days of Caritas. Sure, Lindsey had been errand boy for evil, but that boy could _sing_.

He remembers the first time Lindsey took the stage, because it was the first time anyone had bothered to bring their own instrument.

Lindsey had run his hands over that guitar like a lover, grinned as he pulled up a stool and strummed a few chords, tuning.

Somehow, the usual murmur of conversation had softened, then silenced, and the entire club listened as Lindsey sang "A Quitter Never Wins."

With that first stanza, Lorne froze. Instead of the usual flashes of career and family, love and murder, he was suddenly besieged with a surge of pride, rage, and regret.

As he looks out the window of his cab, seeing Lindsey collapse in his mind's eye, over and over again, Lorne knows the pride and rage were Lindsey's.

The regret is his own.

_iii. subsistence is what they care about_

Lorne switches cabs seven times, drawing liberally from convenience store ATMs each time.

He gets as far as San Francisco before he can't take it anymore. He directs the driver to a motel, just outside the city limits, and hands him a fistful of cash without counting.

As the cab drives off, he tugs his fedora down on his forehead, pulls his coat closer around his body, and hopes the motel's front office isn't well lit.

When he's finally settled in a dingy corner room, able to take a breath without scenting blood in the air, he grabs the phone book from underneath the bedside stand. Rifles through the pages and hopes that he's remembering the right name, the right town.

He dials the number slowly, and lets out a long sigh of relief when he recognizes the voice on the other end.

"Hey, gorgeous," he sings, willing himself to smile. "Guess who just blew into town!"

_iv. they do not mind what you invent_

It isn't Caritas. It's not even close. The lighting is dull instead of intimate, the floors are grimy, and the bartender's never even _heard_ of a Sea Breeze. But it's a living.

It could be worse, after all. He could be trapped in Vegas, but instead, that summer of enslavement gives him enough name recognition to draw decent crowds to the club every night.

He's willing to sing for his supper, which he actually ends up doing, four nights a week. Besides, he gets paid enough to make the rent for a studio apartment in Oakland, and that isn't something to sneeze at.

He performs mostly his own songs, plus a little Sinatra, a little Aretha, and it keeps the crowd pleased.

The tough thing is taking requests, which he does once a night. Usually things go smoothly; people tend to request the classics.

One night, though, someone asks for a John Mayer song, and the pianist, Carlos, fumbles at the keys.

To cover up, Lorne makes a joke about Caritas. It's something stupid, something about a guy who never sang anything but Manilow.

The audience loves it, eats it up like raspberries.

So, while Carlos has a nervous breakdown in the background, Lorne tells them a story.

_v. someone should have photographed_

His stories are popular, though of course, not as popular as the music. Lorne thinks he would have made a killing on vaudeville.

His shows get more and more crowded, so they add Wednesdays to his schedule, and he's up five nights a week.

Lorne complains, but he's secretly glad to be kept busy. One more night a week means one less night he might accidentally catch the news.

Updates on current events during commercials. Late-breaking announcements on the radio. Conversations he walks past.

He turns his attention away, as quickly as possible, but he still catches bits and pieces, against his will.

Riots in Los Angeles. People mysteriously disappearing from office buildings. Mass hysteria and hallucinations, supposedly caused by a toxic waste spill in the river.

He tries not to think about what it all means. He tries not to think about it at all.

_vi. they start to repeat themselves_

Lorne rehearses every afternoon at 3 p.m., whether he has a show that night or not.

He only needs to rehearse the set with Carlos, do a quick soundcheck, but he always stays longer than that.

He runs over the stories he wants to tell, and the ones he needs to tell.

He decides which ones he can pass off as fantastical, and which ones need to be edited for mature content.

He practices even when there's no one there to listen.

He says everything out loud, because he's never going to call to find out what happened next.


End file.
